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It was the summer of 1970, and I was nine years old.
The Big Red Machine had arrived on the scene, and Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez and crew were tearing up the National League. The Reds had closed their old ballpark – Crosley Field – at the end of June and moved their show downtown to Riverfront Stadium, which would soon be hosting the MLB All Star Game. And I was pestering my Dad on a daily basis as to whether he had – or would be able to score – some tickets. At the ripe old age of nine, I had already begun my list of the world’s ...